The Highland Games
by yipyop
Summary: When a princess comes of age, the clans across the land of DunBroch compete for her hand in marriage. Love is just that simple.
1. Chapter 1

**I.**

The evening was cool, with the clouds holding a promise of rain, so the crackling fire in the hearth was most definitely welcome in Elinor's chilly bedroom. Her dark eyelashes fluttered tiredly as she gazed out the windows, the fire flickering orange onto the glass. Elinor's fingers skillfully wove a needle in and out of the fabric she was currently working on, but her mind wandered elsewhere. Elinor did not even notice when her fingers slipped and the sharp needle prodded her left thumb until it was too late.

"Ow!" she hissed, bringing her thumb to her mouth in an attempt to ease the pain. Elinor admitted that trying to divert her mind with embroidery was a terrible idea in her distracted state, and she promptly set the wooden hoop on the floor. Instead, she clasped her shaking hands together and stared at the fire, making out swirling shapes and attempting to swallow the lump in her throat.

It had only been an hour since her mother and father had come to her room requesting that she come to speak with them in two hours. Elinor had wondered why they had not just told her the news right then, or it would have spared the girl much anxiety. But they were the king and queen after all, so she figured that any argument she posed would be invalid.

Again, she flicked her eyes back toward the window, where she could see that rain was beginning to fall. Being the daughter of the king and queen did not always mean that she was mindful of goings-on, contrary to what people thought. Elinor found that she barely ever knew what was going on, quite honestly. While her parents made plans for the future of the kingdom, Elinor found that she busied herself with her studies, embroidery, voice and instrumental lessons, and anything else a princess was expected to do. The grounds were particularly beautiful to take a walk in, and strolling through the castle gardens made for a pleasant pastime. However many times she attempted to busy herself, she had still not gotten the hang of it, especially when there was important news and she was forced to wait at the king's convenience.

Elinor sighed impatiently and reached around herself to finger her long hair, which had somewhat straggled out of her braid. _A lady is patient,_ she reminded herself, closing her eyes to keep focus, breathing deeply. _She is calm and collected._ _A lady never squirms or jumps at unexpected…_

"Elinor!"

Elinor stood up so fast her chair toppled backwards. She whipped her head around to the door, where her lady-in-waiting stood covering her mouth, as if to suppress a giggle. The princess collected herself, although there was a slight twinge of pink in her cheeks. "Yes, Netta?"

"I just thought I may keep you some company," the girl replied, a hint of a smile still present on her lips. "I can imagine the suspense must be insufferable."

"And why should I feel suspense, my friend?" Elinor asked, feigning confidence. "This is just a little chat with my mum and dad, nothing more."

Netta's eyes widened sizably, as if she had given away a huge secret. "So you don't know? Oh…forgive me, Elinor. Disregard everything I've said…" The girl curtsied briskly and turned to leave, but Elinor was in the doorway in a moment to block her way.

"Oh, no you don't!" she demanded. "What do you know?"

Netta fiddled with one of her long, blonde braids, avoiding eye contact with her mistress. "It is nothing, really. Just a bit of gossip amongst the other servants is all…"

Elinor took her friend by the arm and forcefully led her to the chair by the fire. This was the only way to relieve her anxiety, and she was going to squeeze every last drop of information out of her lady-in-waiting. "Tell me, Netta."

Netta shook her head. "Like I've said, it is only a bit of gossip. The other servants in the kitchen were talking of your father planning to meet with the other clans."

Elinor blinked in surprise. It was quite lucky that one of the servants happened to be her best friend, and even more lucky that the servants were quite the eavesdroppers. "Netta…do you think that this could mean…?"

"War?" Netta finished in a hushed voice. "I don't know, Elinor. There have been a lot of speculations, but why else would your father want to meet with the other clans all of a sudden? We have not been in contact with them for years."

"Then it makes no sense for there to be a war," Elinor declared. "What kind of disagreements could have possibly risen up?"

Netta picked up Elinor's wooden hoop off of the floor, studying the intricate stitch. "You know I am awful at remembering relations between countries and clans, Elinor," she scolded playfully.

Elinor assumed Netta had changed the subject – a usual harmless blunder – but she was slightly grateful for the distraction. "Nonsense!" she said, squeezing her friend's hand. "I sometimes wonder why I have to know these things as well."

"You are the _princess_, Elinor. If you are going to run the country one day…"

"Don't say it, Netta," Elinor warned, shaking her head. "Please."

Netta stroked her friend's hair gently. "You will be a great ruler, Elinor. You are the smartest, kindest person in the entire kingdom."

Elinor sighed. Ruling the kingdom one day was probably the very last thing she wanted to think about. The pressure in her studies was overwhelming, and becoming ruler hindered on her lessons – at least according to her mother. "Thank you, Netta. But I would rather focus on the troubles at hand."

Netta nodded. For as many times as the topic had come up between them, it was still a touchy subject. The conversations usually ended the same; with Elinor voicing her doubts and Netta doing her best to comfort her. But no matter how many reassurances Netta forced upon the princess, there was always a nagging voice feeding her doubts.

The girls sat together a bit longer, speaking of simpler things like the changing weather, hunting season, and when the next feast was going to be held. The light conversation relieved Elinor a bit, but that relief was soon shattered by a knock at the door and a voice saying, "Princess Elinor, you have been summoned to the throne room."

She groaned inwardly, knowing that her temporary liberation was too good to be true. She nodded unsteadily, trying very hard to restrain herself from reaching up to fiddle with her hair again. Wordlessly, Netta followed her friend out the door and down the long hallway, walking so close that their pinkies touched. It was an enormous comfort for Netta to be there, although it was short-lived when the two reached the large wooden doors, the intricate carvings weaving in and out of Elinor's slightly shaky vision. She shot Netta a look that said "help", but her lady-in-waiting only replied with an uncertain smile. Taking a deep breath, Elinor pushed open the heavy door and entered the room.

Elinor was hit with the familiar wave of the royal smells: thick, perfumed drapes and carpets, heavy smoke from the fireplace, and rosewater. For all of the colorful tapestries hanging on the walls to distract her, Elinor's eyes were immediately drawn to the center of the room where her mother and father sat tall in their thrones, elevated a few steps above the stone floor. Her father looked just as stern as ever, with his strong jaw and long, greying beard. Her mother, however, provided a small comfort as she sat calmly with a serene smile on her face. Elinor took that sign as good news and stepped forward.

"Come closer, my dear," the king said, a slight lightness in his voice. "We have much to discuss."

Elinor moved nearer, keeping her head bowed humbly as she approached.

"Elinor," her mother stated with kind eyes. "How is your embroidery coming along?"

Ah, yes, the formalities. "Very well, mother. I have completed the rose bush gates this past hour."

"Soon, we will have a lovely quilt for your bedroom," the queen smiled, inclining her graceful neck.

"And your studies?" her father asked gruffly, looking as though he could not care less about how her studies were going.

"They are well, Father."

A few moments of silence. Elinor wished that she could just burst out and ask what the big news was for she could scarcely contain herself. Were they truly going to war? And why did this concern her?

Her mother finally relieved her silent suffering, dropping the regulations. "You are growing into a strong, young woman, Elinor. This coming week will be your eighteenth birthday, will it not?"

The girl nodded slowly, a feeling of dread washing over her. She knew that her parents would be talking about her duty to rule the kingdom, she just knew it. She found that she could not bring herself to look at the king and queen. They could not possibly be asking her to take up the crown by her next birthday, could they?

The king chuckled at her obvious reaction, which only made her even more self-conscious. "Do not be disheartened, daughter. We have no intentions of giving away the kingdom so hastily. However, you are coming of age and your mother and I believe that the time has come for you to have a husband."

Elinor's jaw dropped a bit, but she quickly closed it.

"Since we bore no sons, we see it only fitting that you provide us with a new king," the queen explained.

Well, yes, Elinor had always known that. "You…you wish for me to choose a husband?"

Her father made a contradictory noise in his throat. "Not exactly, dear. You will marry a determined man from one of the four clans."

Elinor furrowed her delicate eyebrows thoughtfully. So there was not going to be a war, but a marriage. She questioned which option she disliked more.

"Do not think this is an arranged marriage," her mother said, reading her thoughts. "Your father and I will not be the ones deciding whom you marry. The Highland Games will resolve that." At Elinor's puzzled expression, her mother continued. "We have asked the four clans to participate in The Highland Games for your hand, and they have all accepted. On your eighteenth birthday, the clans will gather here to celebrate, and then The Games will commence!"

The girl took a minute to process everything that was being thrown at her, swallowing hard. "Mother," she finally stammered. "What exactly are 'The Highland Games'?"

"The Games are a series of events for the competing clans," her father jumped in, sounding quite enthusiastic about the whole ordeal. "The winner will earn your hand in marriage and a chance to rule the kingdom by your side."

"And you will be the one who chooses the challenges!" the queen added.

Elinor vaguely remembered the stories her mother used to tell her of brave warriors fighting for a royal's hand in marriage. The tales were long and exciting, with many action sequences to keep the princess up all night dwelling on them. There was always the occasional dragon or troll to keep things more interesting, but Elinor doubted that any fascinating creatures were going to show up to The Games.

"Do not fret, daughter," her mother told her with a smile. "This is an adventure! The sons of the clan leaders will be fighting for _you."_

After a minute more of reassurances and comforts, Elinor was dismissed from the room. She shuffled into the hall, closing the heavy wood door behind her. The princess did not bother to keep her head up as she shuffled uncertainly back to her bedroom to give Netta the news.

…

Quick author's note: Thanks to all who are reading! Enjoy, and comments are greatly appreciated! Also, I made the cover art myself, so please go check out my deviantart to see a full-sized version! -


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

The day of Elinor's birthday came a bit too quickly for her taste. She had opened her eyes from a night spent reading every book she could find on the Highland Games and now the thickly bound volumes were strewn about her bed. She stretched her arms toward the ceiling, wincing as her muscles quivered. It was not until she was in mid-yawn that it hit her like a chair to the back of the head:

She was eighteen.

The four clans of DunBroch would be arriving this very evening to the birthday celebration feast and dance. Elinor's stomach knotted. The entire idea seemed quite absurd to her; men fighting over who got to marry the princess like the way children fought over a toy ship. It was all quite childish in her opinion. The more Elinor learned about The Highland Games the more she disliked the idea of it all. Glorifying men for beating the life out of each other was not her preferred way of spending the next few weeks. The Highland Games lasted at least three weeks – one task per week, although Elinor had read about the Games lasting even longer. There was an incident where one task alone lasted six weeks. The competitors were expected to find twelve objects in the forest, but these objects were so specific – and some even mystical – that it took weeks camping and hunting in the forest to collect them all. By that time, the competitors were not even sure they wanted the princess anymore.

Another Highland Games tale involved the princess falling in love with a blacksmith and refusing to marry the sons of the clan leaders. She decided to choose the most impossible tasks for the challengers, but they finally accomplished the first few undertakings with much persistence. The princess, in her anger at their triumph, had them fight to the death in the final task. They all had ended up killing each other, and the princess married her blacksmith in the end.

Elinor shuddered. She was not going to let the Highland Games end this way for her. At the very least, no one was going to die. She was nervous about choosing the three tasks, however, and hoped her judgment would be sufficient in deciding ways for her suitors to prove themselves. She knew early on that she was not going to choose tasks that only displayed strength. She admired an intellectual individual to rule with her. He would have to be handsome of course, generous, courteous, everything a royal should be.

The more she dwelled on the subject the more it seemed quite surreal. She was not choosing a husband or carefully picking challenges or even coming of age. Elinor was only daydreaming of her future husband and coming up with fantasies of him slaying a fire breathing dragon for her honor. She sighed. If only it were that simple.

Lost in thought, Elinor barely heard the knock on the door as she stared out the window at the dark landscape beyond. When the visitor knocked even more loudly, Elinor jumped from her bed and scurried over to the door, opening it a crack.

"Good morning, Elinor." It was the queen. Elinor bid her mother "good morning" but did not invite her in. She was not too keen on letting her mum see the mess scattered over her unmade bed. "Many happy returns, dear."

"Thank you, mother," Elinor replied.

The queen smiled elegantly, reaching out to brush a strand of long hair out of Elinor's face. "Eighteen years old. You are a woman." Elinor felt her face flush slightly. She somewhat wished her mother would not say things like that. "Do you feel older?"

It was funny. No matter how many times she was asked this on every birthday, she never felt older in the slightest. "No, mum."

The queen smiled again, flashing her brilliantly white teeth. It made Elinor bite her lip discomfortingly. She could barely believe that her mother looked so…perfect, even at this early hour. Her deep, brown hair was already fixated in two thick braids down her back, and her face had been scrubbed and polished so her skin shone ivory. Elinor stared down at her unkempt, tangled mess of hair forlornly. The queen did not seem to notice and instead continued on. "If you are ready, Agnes will take you to get cleaned up for your big day."

Elinor started when she finally noticed the portly woman standing behind her mother. Had she been there the entire time?

The greying-haired woman curtsied. "G'morning, princess. If you will come with me then…"

Elinor, still feeling quite small in her mother's presence, clutched her scraggly braid in one hand and the hem of her nightgown in the other as she followed the woman down the stone hallways, still dark since the sun had not yet risen. Elinor did her best to make herself as small as possible, embarrassed in her disheveled state, which was pretty easy when she concealed herself behind the large woman.

The two soon arrived in the bathhouse already misty with the steam rising from the nearest tub of water. Several servants stood around it, curtsying to Elinor and wishing her happy birthdays. Before she even had time to respond, she was stripped of her nightclothes and ushered towards the stone tub in the center of the room. Elinor shivered and wrapped her arms around her naked frame as she stepped into the welcoming, hot water, sighing as the servants took their usual places around her. She flinched as some reached for her tangled hair and rubbed in soaps and scented oils, massaging her scalp and tangling their combs in her mess of locks. As routine as this procedure was, Elinor's bath took much longer than it ever had before. Not only was she scrubbed harder – to her discomfort – she was practically drowning in the suds climbing in bubbly steps towards her face. Even when the once steamy water fizzled to room temperature, Elinor was forced to sit and endure all of the prodding and washing.

"Apologies, Princess," one of the servants commented when Elinor flinched under the relentless nail-trimming. "But Queen Bernadette has insisted you be presentable for when the clans arrive."

Elinor fought rudeness but was impelled to ask, "But the celebration does not even begin until sundown. It does not take ten hours to prepare me, does it?"

She meant it as a little joke, but the servants exchanged looks. "Actually, Princess..."

Elinor's eyes widened in disbelief. She was going to be primped without relent until _sundown?_ Granted, she loved the occasional pampering, but an entire day of this? She already felt her skin pruning and wrinkling in the lukewarm bathwater and felt her stomach growl loudly. How long had it already been? Two, three hours? It was past breakfast time. Would she have time to eat?

To her utter displeasure, Elinor found that she was correct in her assumptions. The entirety of the day consumed of beauty remedies, measurements, hair fixing, nail scrubbing, and trying on gown after gown after gown. She had not even gotten a bite to eat as she was forced into another corset and was promptly scolded for squirming. She could not help it, for it was past noon by this point and she had not eaten anything all day.

"Please, Agnes," she begged at around four o'clock as the old maid tightened the laces on her corset for the third time. She really did not mean to complain – she had suppressed her remarks for the whole day and remained positive, just like a lady should be. By this point, however, Elinor felt as though she was going to fall over soon if she did not speak her mind. "May I have someone bring a little something up for me…? A crust of bread will do me just fine…"

Agnes raised a white eyebrow suspiciously as if Elinor was trying to sneak one by her. "You will have plenty t'eat at the feast tonight, Princess," she finally said, turning back to the wardrobe to rifle through the gowns again. Elinor made a face at her maid's back and wondered if she would get away with roaming the castle in her corset and undergarments. She was so hungry she thought she was going to faint and quite honestly did not care whether the castle saw her in her underwear. As her maid's back was turned, Elinor grabbed a robe, squeezed out of her bedroom door and scurried downstairs. Wandering around the castle in a trailing robe was easier to do than she had originally thought. She stole away into the kitchens and jumped out of the way as a server turned the corner and nearly hit her with a basket of dates. The servants were so busy hauling baskets of food and preparing for the feast that they barely shot the princess a second glance as she swiped an apple and two biscuits from the countertop. A thrill of rebellion ran through her, and she did not stop running until she reached the gardens.

"Curse this corset!" she wheezed, plopping herself down onto a stone bench, clutching the stich in her side. Her robe was now clinging to her with sweat, but she felt exhilarated enough to take a monstrous bite out of her apple. A tickling feeling spread from her stomach to her fingertips and for the first time all morning, she felt relief. The apple was soon gone and she finished off the biscuits in three bites. Elinor sighed with contentment and wiped her sticky hands on her sleeves.

…..

Later that evening, Elinor somewhat wished that she had fainted instead of running off to swipe some food. At least then she would have gotten some sympathy instead of the talking-to from her mother.

_"Elinor!_ Just look at your hair!

"Highly improper. A lady never eats when…"

"You should not have left your poor maid…"

Elinor, face glowing red, had apologized nearly a thousand times as she sat and let her mother brush and repair her hair, which had gone wildly astray in her escape from the castle.

"I am sorry, mum," she repeated, staring at her hands folded in her lap. "I was only…hungry...and anxious."

"I have not the time to reprimand you," the queen sighed, weaving the last daisy into Elinor's now elegant hair. Elinor begged to differ, wincing as her mother tugged rather hard at a strand of her hair. "Tonight is already upon us, and the clans will be arriving at any moment. I expect to talk about your little escapade later. For now, the great hall awaits."

Elinor watched as the queen stood from her stool and practically glided from the room, long, forest-green dress flowing behind her. When she was sure she was completely alone, Elinor turned to look at herself in the mirror. At first, she did not recognize the wide-eyed girl staring back at her. Her hair was as elegant as it had ever looked, pulled back in stylish braids and curls atop her head that cascaded down her back. Daisies weaved their way in and out of the delicate braids, bringing blooming white contrast to her dark locks. She touched a curl hesitantly, watching it bounce. Her face was clean and glowing in the flickering candlelight of her bedroom, and the deep mauve of her gown made her eyes twinkle in the dim light. She rubbed a hand on her bare neck, feeling slightly exposed despite the layers of fabric falling at her feet.

She would have to go down to the hall sooner or later to greet the strangers who would soon be fighting over her, the princess of DunBroch.

_No use stopping the dogs as they squabble over the last piece of meat, _she thought bitterly, making her way out of the warmth of her bedroom and down the cold, stone steps.

…


	3. Chapter 3

III.

To say that the great hall looked stunning would have been an understatement. In fact, the hall was so magnificent that Elinor hardly recognized it with its bursts of colors, dancing candles, and magnificent smells. The great stone pillars were woven with orange and purple streamers and ribbons, matching the cloths and napkins spread across the four tables (which were to represent the four clans.) Elinor would sit with her parents at the head of the hall facing the clans at the long, mahogany table this night. She pulled at the sleeve of her gown nervously, wishing she would not be on blatant display like this.

The servants were still bustling to set tables and to add some last-minute touches to the décor. Elinor spotted Netta busily setting white daisies on each table and waved to her friend. Netta grinned and mouthed, "Happy Birthday!" Before Elinor could sneak across the hall to talk to her, she noticed her father already seated, looking quite impatient and agitated as he tugged on his long beard. When he caught sight of her, he motioned her over and she quickly obeyed, mouthing "sorry" back to Netta.

"Take your place, Elinor," he told her sternly. "Remember to personally thank each clan leader for participating."

"Yes, father," she said automatically.

The wait was agonizing, sitting there facing the double doors that could open at any given moment. Not to mention that Elinor felt so very small sitting to the left of the queen with her head held high like the graceful neck of a swan. Elinor did her best to imitate the look of collectedness – and failing – just as someone proclaimed, "A caravan arrives on horseback, your majesties!"

Elinor's stomach did a somersault.

"Thank you. Bring them forth as soon as they arrive," the king pronounced.

_Please don't,_ Elinor thought helplessly, clasping her shaking hands in her lap. What if all of the contenders were heartless brutes? What if the contenders were spineless twits?

Elinor craned her neck to see over the heads of the people crowding around the door to let the guests in. As the servants cleared to reveal the swarm of kilt-clad men, Elinor smoothed out her gown uncertainly. The throngs of people were laughing loudly as they shouted greetings to the royals and mingled around the hall to find their designated tables. The king and queen frowned disapprovingly at the noise, but plastered on smiles for their common guests.

And then came the clans. Each was dressed in a different color so it was fairly easy to pick them out. There were sections of red, green, blue and yellow mingling about the hall. Who Elinor assumed were the clan leaders halted in front of her and her parents, all talking at once in gruff, excited voices. As the king and queen attempted to quiet everyone down, all Elinor could see was a wave of scraggly beards moving up and down across the hall. She wanted to burst out laughing at the ridiculous image, but stared at her folded hands instead. After all, it was improper to imagine such silly things.

"Yer majesties!" A man with a neatly trimmed black and grey beard shouted above the noise and bowed grandly at the presence of the royals. He wore a kilt of forest green. "We thank ye for inviting us to yer abode."

The king nodded curtly. "Yes, yes," he grumbled.

"Lord Macbeth," the queen smiled, giving her husband a warning look. "We are very pleased to see you here tonight." She offered a hand which Macbeth kissed gently. Elinor prayed that no one would be kissing _her_ hand. "And is this your son?"

Lord Macbeth stepped aside to present the tall, dashing man to his right. "My king and queen, I present yer champion, Alastor Macbeth!"

Alastor bowed stiffly, shifting his eyes to glance at Elinor. She moved uncomfortably under his hard gaze and felt her cheeks grow pink, but she had to admit that he was a handsome one. He had broad, muscular shoulders, shiny black hair, and a short, almost square beard sitting on his chin. His grey eyes seemed to scrutinize Elinor before blinking and returning back to the king and queen. "Yer majesties."

"Thank you for participating," Elinor said automatically, remembering her father's orders. She exhaled, making a mental list in her mind:

_Alastor Macbeth. Looks to be in his early twenties. Handsome, polite, good posture and presence. _

The Macbeth clan was quickly shoved aside so the red-kilted men could introduce themselves. Where the Macbeth clan was calm and strong, the red clan was loud and rambunctious, bodies bedecked in ridiculous blue war paint. They clapped each other on the backs, laughed, shoved, and Elinor swore she could hear something resembling a roar somewhere in the crowd. Two men almost identical in appearance stepped forward, although one was definitely older and sported a beard that looked like there was still some food caught in it.

"I am Lord Macintosh!" the leader thundered, raising his skinny arms over his head so his clan cheered and screamed and stomped their feet. Elinor averted her eyes at his impossibly hairy armpits. "And this is my son and your future king, Ivan Macintosh!"

Ivan stepped forth and Elinor found it very hard not to burst into giggles. Not only was he as gangly as his father, he was just as hairy and puffed out his chest proudly to give the appearance of strength and pride. His wild, matted hair sprung in every direction as if had just been hit with a bolt of lightning. He bowed with much waving of his hands. "Thank ye, yer majesties. And to you, Princess Elinor."

Elinor hid her laughter behind her napkin. "Thank you for participating," she said.

_Ivan Macintosh. Eighteen or nineteen years of age. Obviously proud, but of what I'm not sure. His bark looks worse than his bite. He has the appearance of being dipped in a vat of grease._

The next clan stepped forward with pompous looks on their faces, flaunting their yellow kilts to introduce "Lord Dungus" and his son "Shug."

"Thank you for participating." _Shug Dungus,_ Elinor thought with a twinge of pity. _Eighteen years old, tops. Seems as though he has never worked a day in his life considering that rather large belly of his. Poor thing looks like he would rather be anywhere but here. I know the feeling, wee lamb._

The introductions were all quite short, but Elinor found that she was already getting bored. She stifled yawn after yawn, hoping that they would be eating soon.

The blue-clad clan finally took their places before the thrones and bowed. The leader reminded Elinor of a wild lion; thick, wild mane of bright red hair and long beard were both wrestled into heavy braids – one in the front and one in the back. He had a sense of humor in those eyes as he bowed again.

"My lord, lady, and princess," he said, winking humorously in Elinor's direction. "I present to yeh my son, Fergus Underhill."

The man called Fergus stepped forward, bowing as graciously as his father. The first thing Elinor noticed about him was his enormous stature. He was not round and heavy like the Dunguses and not quite as toned as the Macbeths. The closest adjective Elinor could come up with was _square._ He towered at least a head above the other sons and was twice as wide. Elinor could not deny those unbelievably muscled limbs and briefly wondered how many whole chickens she could fit in those enormous hands. Fergus glanced directly at the princess, who did not expect such bright, impossibly blue eyes to land on hers. He smiled so the short, red beard rimming his mouth turned upwards. She felt her heart beating hard against her chest.

"Welcome," the queen said, looking to Elinor expectantly and snapping her out of her trance.

"I…thank you for participating."

Elinor mentally slapped herself as her mother nodded and gestured to the hall. "And welcome to all of you. It is time we began."

The king stood slowly from his chair, layers of robes falling soundlessly to the floor. The hall fell deathly silent and Elinor watched the men's lively faces suddenly become gravely serious. "The Highland Games, as you all know, will determine which of you four men is worthy to marry the princess of DunBroch, who on this day has come of age."

At the mention of the princess, the clans instinctively glanced in Elinor's direction and her gaze fell to her folded hands clasped in her lap. The king continued to talk of bravery and chivalry and everything that a champion should be as the clans listened with their mouths hanging slightly agape. After all, Elinor's father was quite the speechmaker, even when he did not always care being around so many people. She half-listened to his monologue and absentmindedly wondered when the food would be served. As much as she wanted to smack herself for thinking of something so silly, her stomach continually reminded her of the emptiness gnawing at her insides. The apple and biscuits she had eaten seemed like a distant memory.

"…and the challenges will test you both mind and body," the king was saying. Elinor plastered on a look that betrayed attentiveness. "Without further ado, my daughter, Princess Elinor of DunBroch, will now announce the first challenge."

Elinor felt her insides contract, felt her face turn ashen, and felt her hungry thoughts flutter away. _The challenges,_ she realized, horrified. In all of her constant worry over the evening, Elinor had completely forgotten that she was supposed to have chosen the three trials. She had not even given her task a second thought. How could she have forgotten? This was her one assignment besides "thank you for participating" for the entire evening and she did not even try to remember what it was.

The hall was staring at her. "Ah…" she stammered, choosing an empty space on the back wall so she would not have to meet anyone's eyes. "The first challenge…is…" Her voice sounded hollow inside the Great Hall as her mouth reached for words to come. Elinor searched the hall for an answer, glancing at a battle axe hanging off of a man's belt and forcing herself not to blurt, "Fight to the death!"

Elinor racked her brains for previous Highland Games tasks. She recalled the many books she had skimmed the night before and the only image that came to her was that of an illustration of a man squinting at a target. What sports used targets? It could not have been the caber toss – Elinor had promised herself she would not choose tasks that only tested one's strength. A target, the look of consternation, an arrow…

"Archery!" she declared, standing up as the realization hit her. "The first task will be archery!"

There were scattered chuckles echoing throughout the room. Elinor sank back into her chair, biting her lower lip.

"Very good," the queen stated calmly. "And now if you will all take your seats at your designated tables, the celebration will begin."

…..

Watching the hordes of men consume their food was like watching a pack of wild dogs snarling over a carcass. Elinor had lost her appetite within the first ten minutes of the feast and grew bored within the first fifteen. She did, however, find it interesting to observe each of the competitors for her hand and to try to create a personality for each. At the table to her left was the Macbeth clan clad in their green kilts and sporting their weaponry. They were the quietest of the clans, talking only amongst themselves and giving the other clans strange, observing looks. The Dungus clan (a sea of yellow) seemed friendly enough, some of the men making conversation with the other tables. The Macintosh clan in their vibrant reds and blues (that ridiculous war paint) were loud and obnoxious; challenging anyone they could to arm wrestles and drinking contests. Elinor could not keep herself from staring at the Underhill clan in their dark blues (which complemented the men's red hair beautifully in Elinor's opinion.) They were just so…interesting to observe.

Elinor was so lost in thought she jumped when someone whispered her name in her ear.

"Netta!" Elinor gasped, clutching at her bodice. This corset was making it very hard to catch her breath. "You startled me!"

"I'm sorry," Netta smiled, filling Elinor's cup with more water to appear busy.

"How are you enjoying your evening? I do hope you're not being worked too hard."

"The workload is busy, but it is quite exciting to be around other clans for a change. They are all so fascinating."

For a moment, Elinor wished she could follow Netta around filling glasses with ale and eavesdropping on conversations without anyone staring at her or telling her to go back to her seat.

"Also," Netta said in a lower tone. "The Macbeth boy is very much looking forward to 'formally introducing himself to the princess'."

Elinor furrowed her brows and looked to where the Macbeth clan was sitting. Alastor Macbeth was speaking with his father and was throwing glances in her direction every few seconds. "Perhaps I'm imagining things, but weren't we already introduced?"

"What do you make of him?" Netta asked.

"I…I cannot make decisions about any of these men yet." In truth, Elinor had already made assumptions about her competitors, but she would never have told anyone.

Netta smiled and took her leave, filling more cups and bringing more food to the guests without complaint. Elinor longed for her company after the first few moments of being alone. This did not last long, however, as Alastor Macbeth, true to his word, stood from his table and headed in her direction. _Time for that "formal introduction",_ Elinor thought, bracing herself.

Alastor gave a curt bow. "Princess Elinor," he said.

Elinor only nodded. She was a princess – there was no need for petty words. Plus, the hall had shut up to listen to the exchange.

"I wish to comment on yer beauty this night."

_Odd way of putting it._ "I thank ye, Macbeth."

Macbeth looked pleased. "I hope to have yer favor in the archery task come morrow."

What was the protocol in handing out favors? Elinor had never been properly trained in this aspect of the Games. "You shall have it," she finally said, hoping this response would suffice. When she thought about it, she did favor Macbeth in a way. He was handsome and strong and polite. By the way her parents were silently watching their discussion, they seemed to be thinking the same thing.

Macbeth nodded in satisfaction. "Then I look forward to seeing you in the morning, Princess Elinor." He reached for her hand, kissed it, and returned to his table to whoops and expressions of "congratulations" at his expense.

It was several hours later by the time the hall was finished eating. The moon was shining full force through the windows, illuminating the empty, golden dishes so they sparkled in the darkening hall. Despite the late hour, not one man present seemed even a little drowsy. They were erupting in song now, slurring the words and notes so the palace dogs howled right along. Elinor felt herself drifting off, but her corsets prevented her from slouching even a tiny amount. _It must be past midnight by now,_ she thought, pinching her arm to jolt herself awake. _How long must I sit here on display while the men enjoy themselves?_

"Agnes, will you take Elinor to her room please? She must be well rested for the opening task tomorrow."

Elinor gave her mother a relieved look that said "thank you" as she was helped from her chair and taken to the back of the hall where she would not draw attention to herself. Not that it mattered – the clans were much too busy telling their war stories to even notice she had gone.

Elinor ascended the stone steps with her maid, feeling slightly downcast with no good reason. Another celebration turned to a public, rehearsed spectacle. It was no surprise who the future king and winner of the Games was going to be. The king and queen expressed their interest in Macbeth, and he seemed more than qualified to run the country at Elinor's side. Elinor should have expected all of this.

As she turned the corner at the top of the steps, away from the booming, obnoxious voices of the other clans,

"Princess!"

A note of dread escaped her lips. All she wanted to do was curl up in her enormous bed and forget the entire evening. She turned around, ready to give the person an excuse, only to find a red-haired giant thundering towards her. She instinctively flinched, and Agnes let out a scream. The man skidded to a halt two feet from them.

"I apologize!" he said between jagged breaths. "I didn't mean to startle yeh!"

Agnes threw her arms in the air and gave the man a shove. He was nearly twice her size and barely flinched, but that didn't stop Elinor's hysterical maid. "How dare you! You scared the wits out of the princess!"

"I am fine, Agnes," Elinor patted her maid on the shoulder and turned back to the man. "You are the son of Underhill, correct?"

Before the man could answer, Agnes huffed and took Elinor by the arm. "The princess has no time to speak. I must get her to her chambers."

"Please, ma'am, I swear it will not take long." He looked desperate, those blue eyes widening, pleading. Elinor considered allowing herself to be led away, but an indefinable tug told her to stay. What was the harm in "formally" meeting the other competitors?

"Will you give us a moment, Agnes?"

The maid glowered at the giant and stormed off, muttering something rather nasty under her breath. Elinor turned to the man, taking in his largeness with an interested eye. He smiled largely. "My thanks, Princess. I know how busy yeh must be."

"It is no trouble," Elinor replied. "What is it you need, Underhill?" _Would you like my favor now, too?_

"Oh please," he waved an enormous hand. "Call me Fergus!"

She found herself suppressing a smile. His cheerfulness was becoming contagious. "Fergus then."

He chuckled and tugged once on his short, thick beard, not seeming to mind that she was not being very talkative. "I just wanted to wish yeh a Happy Birthday! I couldn't help but notice that it was only mentioned once tonight, and thought that if someone had only mentioned it was _my_ birthday once, well I would have a right fit."

In all the bustle of the evening, she had forgotten it was her birthday herself. He was the first one to give her happy wishes. "Oh…well, thank yeh, Fergus."

He smiled again. It intrigued her how when he smiled, the rest of his face seemed to smile with him. "Pleasure, Princess."

And she smiled back.

….


	4. Chapter 4

**IV.**

Fergus Underhill crept as silently as he was able through the stone hallways, cringing at every echoing sound his enormous feet were making. The skies remained dark outside but Fergus knew that dawn was fast approaching and he would not have too long before the castle was bustling with servants. Bow in hand and arrows slung on his back, he squeezed through the back doorway of the kitchen and greeted the brisk, morning air with a heavy sigh. The cold hit him immediately, brushing icy fingertips against the exposed skin of his face and hands and causing them to turn a bright shade of pink. Adrenaline shot through Fergus' veins at his exposure to the air as he gazed at the misty, dark forest to his left. No other competitor would have thought to get in some archery practice this early, he hoped. Fergus had to make sure he was one step ahead of the rest of the players on this day.

It was more difficult than he thought picking his way around the scattered tents in the field. The four players in The Games were supplied with lavish rooms in the castle, but the rest of their clans were forced to weather the elements outside in their tents. Patches of yellow, blue, red, and green covered the grounds like an elaborate quilt. Fergus stepped lightly around a yellow tent – which was emitting loud, snoring sounds – and almost tripped over the hairy feet that stuck out of the end.

He finally did reach the closure and sanctuary of the woods, stepping into the canopy of orange, red, and yellow. He took his bow in hand and stole through the forest, keeping to the shadows. The smoothness of its wood against his rough hand offered reassurance in his abilities, and when he pulled his first arrow right through a falling leaf, he became even more confident.

As he shot at more randomly placed targets (a few more leaves and five tree trunks), the events of the last few days began to weigh on Fergus like the thick, forest air around him. The journey to the castle on the cliff was definitely a long one (five days by boat and three on horseback) and as much as Fergus loved to travel, he had been more than anxious to arrive at the castle and see the princess – the person his father had promised he would marry.

"Don't worry yerself, Fergus," his father had said. "Those royal-types tend to be a bit standoffish, yes, but you are the strongest and bravest in the kingdom."

Oh, Fergus Underhill had never doubted this. His strong stature towered above the other players, and he definitely knew that his bravery was not to be trifled with. Fergus had rode into the courtyard with his head held high and a self-assured grin on his face. But then he had entered the great hall in its splendor and had laid eyes on _her_: Princess Elinor.

His self-reliant grin had faded, his eyes had widened, and his once confident posture shriveled until he was no more than a little boy. The princess was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, sitting with wide, cautious eyes like a doe examining her surroundings. His father had hence warned him that beauty was fleeting, but Fergus found it very hard to tear his gaze away from her, especially when he was introduced.

For the entirety of the feast, he had stolen quick glances at the royal table where Princess Elinor seemed to be forcing smiles with those lush, pink lips of hers. Just as Fergus was gathering the courage to go up and ask for her favor in the first task (he had never had to gather courage for anything in his life), that Macbeth boy was already out of his seat and conversing with her. Fergus could not make everything out, but he most definitely heard Macbeth say the words "beauty" and "favor". The wee sneak. Buttering up the princess with hollow compliments and then immediately asking her favor? How was that for treating a lady? And not even wishing the girl a "many happy returns"? Fergus may have not been an expert on etiquette, but he knew how a lady should _not _be treated – and on her birthday, no less.

_ Swish._

_ Thunk. _

Another one of his arrows dug into the trunk of a tall aspen. The corners of his mouth turned upwards slightly – there was absolutely no chance of losing today's challenge. As he was still congratulating himself, something swished past his right ear and sunk into the pale wood of the tree directly above his own arrow. Fergus spun around, bowstring pulled back for battle, as he laid eyes on a dark-haired, broad-shouldered man.

"Apologies," the man said in a voice as smooth as mead, although not a note of actual regret escaped his lips.

"Macbeth," Fergus greeted, nodding his head tersely. "What brings you out in the woods so early?" Although he knew exactly what.

Macbeth stroked the string on his own weapon, hands so calloused against the sharp edge of the string. "Same as you, I expect." His tone was jeering as if to say, "What a dim-witted question to ask. Why else do you think I am out here? To enjoy the scenery?" Fergus held his ground, refusing to give in to the part of him that wanted to finish Macbeth right then. "After all, how can the princess choose her champion amongst a band of unpracticed fools?" Not waiting for an answer, Macbeth took careful steps through the underbrush towards the aspen and pulled his arrow from the bark. He held the point up to his face, grey eyes narrowing as if studying something only he could see. His eyes wavered from his arrow to Fergus' – no doubt sizing up the competition.

"Your stunned silence only proves my point, Underhill," Macbeth murmured.

"And what point is that?" Fergus did not want to ask the question – he knew it only made Macbeth feel empowered. However, Fergus' tongue was usually one step ahead of his brain and the words had left his mouth before he could stop them. Of course, Macbeth did not answer, but smiled that smug, all-knowing smile that made Fergus want to tackle him (one less competitor to worry about.) Macbeth slipped the arrow back into its quiver and sauntered deeper into the woods, leaving an irritated Fergus in his wake.

When he was sure that Macbeth was gone, Fergus yanked his arrow from the tree, took careful aim, and hit his target – an apple hanging from one of the tallest branches. The apple snapped off its perch and thumped to the ground, spraying bits of juice as it crashed. Fergus left the arrow where it was and stomped off.

…..

The courtyard was abuzz with excitement as the clans packed up their tents, put out their campfires, and readied themselves for the morning's festivities. Fergus had made it back just in time to see his father speaking with one of the other clan leaders. When he caught his son's eye, he excused himself from the conversation and made his way over. It was like watching a bear lumbering towards him, heavy footsteps falling with _thumps_ on the grass. Full-grown men scurried out of his way in fear of getting crushed.

"Are you ready for the task, my boy?" He asked it in a whisper, although his voice was so bass-like that heads still turned.

Fergus straightened his shoulders and nodded. "Aye, father."

Underhill smiled proudly. "Get some practice in?"

"Aye."

"Good boy."

Fergus scanned the field again, senses heightening from the adrenaline filling his veins and causing him to feel everything with intensity; the ground trembling beneath his boots, the silky air on his fingers, and the taste of sweat on his lips.

"May want to focus up, Fergus."

Fergus glanced around, only just realizing that the merry voices of the men had died down to a hush as a new crowd of people came through the grounds. A line of servants holding the DunBroch flags high marched ahead of the royals: the king, the queen, and the princess with her lady-in-waiting. It was quite easy for Fergus to catch a glimpse of the royals, for he stood head and shoulders above the rest of the clans. The king and queen strolled side by side, nodding courteously to their adoring onlookers. Even though the Games were being held outdoors, this did not stop them from dressing in their very finest trappings lined with gold, silver, and jewels.

"Could feed an entire village for a year with just one of those rings," Fergus said in an undertone. His father shot him a look of distain.

Fergus' derision was soon forgotten when Princess Elinor, trailing her mother and father, came nearer and nearer. She dressed more simply than her parents, although not un-princess-like. Her hair, pulled back in two long braids, reminded Fergus of darkened embers against her fair, fair skin. Her forest-green gown was simple, but elegant, and complemented her eyes wondrously. She glanced around the crowds of people, not as poised as her parents. Rather, Elinor's eyes were so wide, they reflected the golden light of the rising sun and those dark, brown orbs darted about the crowds with slight apprehension. Fergus could not help but imagine a graceful doe stepping cautiously through the grass, staying to the shadows. How could such a beautiful creature not want to be seen? As if she felt his hard gaze on her like fire, the princess glanced in his direction.

Fergus barely flinched when greeted suddenly by a wild bear, but he flinched now as those doe-like eyes landed on him. In that single moment he felt surprise and just a little bit of panic, but in the next moment she had crossed his path and had followed the king and queen to their elevated seats.

"Fergus, _go!"_

Fergus stumbled forward, only just realizing that the competitors were lining up before the thrones. He jogged to his place and straightened his shoulders, shaking the dimness he had just felt and attempting to look confident. Just to be safe, though, he refrained from looking in the princess' direction.

….

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I apologize profusely for this late, late update! I have been getting ready for college and life has been hella hectic. I promise that updates will be more frequent from now on! Thank you oh so much for the favorites and comments! Your support means more than you know.

P.S. I should also say that I rewrote this chapter at least twice until I came out with the finished product. I had it from Elinor's perspective (what I was going to do for the entirety of the story) but then I remembered a review from someone saying how they hoped Fergus' POV would be in here somewhere. What a great idea! I loved it. Hence, this.


	5. Chapter 5

**V.**

As the archers took their marks before the targets, Elinor's stomach gave an involuntary lurch. She had no clear idea why she should be feeling nervous for the competing men, but there it was. Perhaps it was not the men she was nervous for at all. If not them, then what was wrong with her?

"That Underhill fellow looks at you an awful lot," Netta whispered in Elinor's ear.

Elinor watched the red-haired man hurry over to take his place, having fallen behind. "I am quite sure they _all_ look at me an awful lot, Netta," she whispered back, although she kept her eyes on Underhill's broad shoulders, observing as he stretched his massive arms over his head and rolled his shoulders back in circular motions. His large form next to the smaller challengers was hard _not_ to look at.

Netta bounced slightly on her heels, eager for the Games to begin. Needless to say, she seemed much more enthused about this whole ordeal than Elinor felt. After all, she was not the one waiting to see who her future husband was going to be.

"Who do you think is the most skilled?" Netta whispered, scanning the men enthusiastically. "Macintosh seems quite obnoxious, but perhaps he will surprise us?" Ivan Macintosh was currently performing toe-touches, causing his kilt to ride up past his mid-thigh. Elinor averted her eyes with a grimace.

"Ah, but you have already given your favor away, haven't ye?" Netta nudged Elinor slyly, nodding her head towards Macbeth. He was running a calloused hand over smooth curve of his bow. When he noticed her staring, he proceeded in her direction.

"My lady," Macbeth bowed. "You look as lovely as a morning swan parting the misty waters."

This was starting to become routine as Elinor nodded in reply, feeling her parents' gaze on her and her champion. "Macbeth. I wish you good fortune in your task this day." Elinor could almost sense her mother nodding in consent.

This seemed to please Macbeth, and he turned back to his mark, the other competitors glaring at him enviously. Netta gave a giggle. "Look at how jealous they all are! You must feel so fortunate, Elinor."

But Elinor did not feel fortunate in the slightest. How was any of this beneficial to her well-being? If only she was as excited as Netta for the prospect of a new husband.

But before Elinor had even another moment to pout about her circumstances, her father had stood from his throne, waving for the rambunctious clans to quiet down. "Now, now, yes, good morning to yeh…settle down, please…" The clans slowly ceased their chatter. "All right, then. The first task of archery will now begin. Archers! To your marks, if yeh please."

Elinor examined the clan leaders as they gave their sons last-minute advice and pats on the backs. Despite how much she was dreading this entire Highland Games situation, she could not suppress the feeling of hopefulness welling up in her chest. The looks of prospect and pride on the faces of the leaders made Elinor wish that she was not the main focus of the Games. She wished that she was just a bystander, maybe a servant, excited for the princess and for the electrifying archery performance soon to come. She would not have to worry about her future as she merely observed the strong, able-bodied men competing for the hand of the princess. When she thought about it from this perspective, a weight lifted from Elinor's chest. At least now she could pretend that it wasn't happening to her, and now the Games did not seem so terrible.

She was actually quite excited.

"Shug Dungus! Ready your arrow!" the king called.

Dungus parted from his father, looking rather bored as he stepped up to his mark and studied his target. He tilted his head to the left, then the right, and then back to the left. The crowd did not wait on bated breath after the first three minutes of this, starting to whisper amongst themselves and tap their feet impatiently. Elinor glanced at the other contenders, catching Macintosh sniggering at Dungus' sluggishness. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Dungus' arrow was released, hitting the edge-most ring. The crowd _awhed,_ and Lord Dungus gave a loud growl of disappointment.

Elinor let out a breath she did not know she had been holding in.

"Poor thing," Netta whispered. "But this gives your beau a chance to prove himself, doesn't it?"

"You are surely talkative this morning, Netta."

Netta only shrugged and went back to watching the Games unfold, ever constant as she stood at Elinor's right.

The next player, Macintosh, stepped forth, long, matted hair blowing slightly in the breeze. As he turned toward the royals to give a _much _unneeded speech, the queen leaned down next to her daughter and whispered in her ear, "Discern the men, my dear. Let them know you are observing their deeds. And hold your chin high. You look down to no one."

Elinor lifted her head higher and automatically allowed her weary eyes to wander to Macbeth again. Leave it to mother to snap her back into reality when she was doing so well at fooling herself to be an innocent onlooker. Macbeth held the all-too-familiar expression of composure on his face – identical to the queen's. Elinor quickly averted her eyes. Even his good looks could not distract her from seeing her mother's face.

Netta was nudging Elinor again. "Is he still rattling on? What on earth would you do if _he_ won this competition?"

Elinor decided she would not want to think too hard about that. All she knew was that evenings would be devoted to listening to Macintosh babble about himself, and she was already used to hearing people babble about themselves on a daily basis.

The princess watched as Macintosh finally fixed an arrow into place, but she did not notice one Fergus Underhill trying to catch her attention. His eyes would dart from Macintosh and back to the princess, flashes of blue against the autumn-kissed ground. Her attention remained on the arrow as it whipped through the air and sunk itself into the target, however a little off-center. Macintosh let out a high-pitched growling noise and chucked his bow across the field, stomping his dirty feet on the grass. "A right tantrum," Elinor sighed, her displeasure evident on her face. This was fixed quickly with a sharp tap on the arm, courtesy of her mother. Elinor's cynical expression swiftly reformed to a warm smile as if to say, "That was a very nice try."

It finally came to Macbeth's turn. The crowd seemed to be thinking the same as Elinor, for they had all begun whispering excitedly at his approach to his position. A hush fell over the mass as Macbeth stuck a finger in his mouth and raised it slowly to the air, narrowing his eyes at something only he could see. Elinor had to catch herself from leaning too far over the edge of her seat in her anticipation. Macbeth took a breath and pulled the bowstring back, casting a quick glance right at Elinor (causing her heart to jump) before letting go.

The audience waited with still breath for that single moment where the arrow whizzed through the wind and made its mark in the target – right in the center. People cheered and threw their arms in the air as Macbeth lowered his weapon and gave the royals a courteous bow, all without batting an eyelash.

"Well done!" the king thundered, letting out a booming laugh. "Well done, indeed!"

As much as Elinor felt delighted at Macbeth's triumph, she refrained from giving too much away on her face. Macbeth was becoming more and more heroic by the minute; his build and looks, his manners, and now his unmatched skills in archery. "It looks as though you put your trust in the right man, Elinor," Netta was jumping slightly in her thrill of the moment. Elinor thought the same, suppressing the blush creeping into her cheeks as Macbeth blew her a kiss.

"All right, quiet down, please. There is still one more player in this game," the ever-attentive queen called out. The crowd finally died down enough to watch as Fergus Underhill made his way to the last target, although they were still in excitement from the last play, so the murmur of the throngs never really vanished. Elinor had the sneaking suspicion that the only people who were truly paying attention were herself, her mother, and the Underhill clan. The other clans were either congratulating Macbeth for his accomplishment or grumbling about their losses. She did wish that they would at least be respectful; even though she was fairly sure the win would go to her champion either way.

Fergus Underhill shook out his large hands and cricked his neck on both sides, readying himself. The look on his face as he stared down his target was not only ridden with determination, but something even stronger lay there as his eyes pierced his goal. He slid an arrow from his quiver, running the feathered end between two fingers, and carefully fixed it into the crook of his arrow, all the while never taking his gaze off the target. Fergus drew back the string and exhaled, shoulders relaxing slightly as he lifted his fingers from the bowstring and let the arrow fly, slicing through the air. The crowd – now paying more attention – let out a collective gasp as the arrow sunk into the target: a perfect bull's eye.

The men erupted in protests, pointing and growling and throwing fits like caged animals.

"A _tie?"_ Lord Macbeth roared, leaning over his son to see the target better. "Impossible!"

"You cannot have two winners!" another man shouted.

"The man who made the first bull's eye should win."

"Compare the two!"

"Excellent idea," the king bellowed, waving his hand for quiet. "You there! Compare the shots. Hurry now." A servant rushed forward and dragged Macbeth's target over to Underhill's, staggering under the weight and leaving tracks in the dirt. Macbeth had come to stand beside Fergus, scrutinizing both targets meticulously.

"It is my arrow that has found its mark, Underhill," Elinor heard him say. "I suppose the favor of the princess has served me well."

Fergus bared his teeth. "Rubbish. Mark me, Macbeth, the favor of Princess Elinor means nothing to your arrow."

The looks exchanged between Macbeth and Underhill were so severe that Elinor stared at a fixed point in the distance instead.

"He's measuring the target…" Netta was muttering. "…now the distance from the ridge to the center…heavens, the arrows look to be in the same place…"

The servant, squinting at the targets, finally took a step back to face the king. The air was silent as he took a breath.

"The winner is Underhill!"

There was an eruption of noise – mostly applause, although there was some booing and cries of outrage from the Macbeth clan. Fergus Underhill's face lit up and he let out a loud whoop, jumping into the air and nearly stumbling on his feet as he raced towards his clan, receiving pats on the back and many a bear hug from his father. Elinor covered her sudden grin with her hand and clapped softly instead. She was about to give Macbeth her condolences, but the murderous look on Macbeth's face sent a shiver down Elinor's spine. It was gone in an instant, and Elinor wondered if she had imagined it.

"Underhill! _Fergus Underhill!"_ Netta shook her head. "I figured he would be all bulk and no brains!"

Elinor felt a twinge of annoyance at this particular comment, but covered it up with a fake laugh.

The king and queen were whispering things Elinor could not hear above the ruckus. They finally broke apart, sitting tall and intimidating in their chairs. "Approach, Fergus Underhill," the king said. Fergus separated himself from his clan and kneeled before the thrones, his furry, red eyebrows shielding his expression. "You have won the first task. Only two remain."

"Yes, m'lord," Fergus replied. "I am prepared for any challenge the lovely Elinor sets against me."

Flattery had never really had a huge effect on the princess, but from Fergus, his compliments sounded so sincere, so heartfelt. Despite this, Elinor had definitely not thought about any of the other tasks, feeling just as ill-prepared as she had the night before.

"The next challenge will be announced in five days' time," the king declared, now addressing the rest of the clans. Elinor breathed a sigh of relief. "I suggest you prepare and train hard. Become well-rounded in all skill areas, for the princess has a tendency to surprise us."

_Just as I was surprised today,_ Elinor thought, regarding Fergus as he stood and nodded at her. She nodded in return.

…..


	6. Chapter 6

**VI.**

"…I still cannot believe the outcome of the match, can you? The whole castle had been going on and on about Macbeth all of last night and then, what's this? The handsome Fergus Underhill of the Underhill clan swoops in out of nowhere and wins the archery challenge! Elinor, did you _see_ how large his bow was? Well, I suppose it had to be, judging by his enormous hands!"

Elinor pretended she was listening to her enthusiastic friend, but Netta had been going on and on for at least two hours now, speaking of nothing else but the events of the day. Truthfully, Elinor was having a very hard time keeping her eyes open. But Netta just looked so fervent in her replay of the archery match that Elinor could not bring herself to remind Netta that she was supposed to be brushing Elinor's hair for her dinner with Fergus tonight. Netta talked with her hands, waving the brush around and completely losing her place in Elinor's long auburn hair, so she took a new piece and began brushing distractedly.

"So _trained_, they were! Their focus and drive…all to marry you," she shook her head and smiled dreamily. "So, Elinor," Netta continued, leaning forward so she could catch her friend's reaction. "Be completely honest with me, now. Which of the suitors do you fancy the most?"

Elinor bit her bottom lip, conflicted. She did not want to spoil Netta's well-intentioned fun, and yet she could not bring herself to flat-out lie, either. "You see, Netta…"

"…because, personally, I rather fancy Macbeth, but I'm sure you knew that already."

"Netta…"

"But of course Underhill is incredibly handsome, in a rugged sort of way…"

"Netta, I…"

"Surprisingly enough – now don't think me mad! – Macintosh seems a right handsome fellow when you disregard all that silly face paint. I do believe that if he cleaned himself up, he would make a very nice…"

_ "Netta!"_

Netta immediately fell silent, eyes wide with surprise at Elinor's sudden outburst.

"Netta…I don't fancy _any _of the competitors."

Elinor had meant it to sound casual, but Netta's reaction concluded that this statement was nothing short of outrageous. Her mouth hung slightly open and her eyebrows had roosted at the top of her hairline. "You don't think…_none of them?" _The way she said it made it sound like Elinor had expressed her hatred for small, adorable animals.

"Well…no." There was a moment of shocked silence, though Elinor thought it to be utterly ridiculous. "Now, Netta, don't look at me like that. May I remind you that I never asked for any of these men to compete for me?"

But Netta's face remained stubbornly puzzled. "Surely you must fancy one of them, Elinor. You are having dinner with Fergus Underhill tonight, for God's sake!"

"I know," she said rather lamely.

"Well?" Netta placed a hand on her hip. "Then you should be happy. You should be glad that these men are fighting tooth and nail for your hand. You should rejoice in the fact that Underhill looked so pleased to win that…"

"I never asked for it!" Elinor replied, voice rising in volume. She quickly composed herself. "Does the princess ever have a say in anything? Of course not! I don't…I'm not _ready_ to fall in love."

"Don't be ridiculous! It's not about love, Elinor. It's about which of the men is best suited to rule the kingdom, and they are proving it to you through the Games."

Feeling frustrated, Elinor sighed heavily and leaned back in her chair, allowing Netta to finish brushing. But she did not feel the familiar tugging of the comb on her scalp. "Netta…?" Netta was standing contemplatively, stroking the teeth of the brush with her thumb. She looked up at Elinor with darkened eyes.

"You are _ungrateful,_ Elinor."

Elinor blinked her brown eyes. "What…?"

"You have everything," Netta continued, her voice hardening. "Everything you could ever want! You have been offered some of the bravest men in the kingdom and you turn up your nose at all of them! This isn't about _you_, you know. Do you see the way Underhill looks at you? Like you are the only person in the room? And you have treated him like he doesn't matter in the slightest."

Elinor was speechless. This was not the cool, collected Netta that she once knew – the kind lady-in-waiting who stood patiently for an order and always followed through. "Netta…I didn't mean…"

"All you think about is yourself," Netta continued through clenched teeth. "You don't care that these men are willing to throw themselves down to protect you…"

"It's not because of who I am, Netta! It's because I'm a _princess_. No one would think twice about regular Elinor."

Netta raised an eyebrow and suddenly chucked the hairbrush onto the bed, staring at Elinor coldly. "Then maybe you don't deserve to be princess." And then, she turned on her heel and stormed from the room, blonde hair swishing behind her. Elinor sat dumbfounded in her chair as she watched her friend depart.

* * *

Needless to say, if Elinor was not in the mood to have dinner before, she certainly wasn't now. Not only did she have to fix her own hair (which looked so awful that her mother sent her back upstairs so a maid could repair the damage), but ever since her spat with Netta, the horrible ache she had in her stomach would not go away. Her words continued to echo around Elinor's skull even as she made her way down the stone steps to dinner.

_ "You are ungrateful, Elinor."_

_ "All you think about is yourself."_

_ "You have everything, and yet you turn up your nose…"_

Elinor swallowed the lump in her throat. Never had she had such an argument with her lifelong friend. It was so unlike Netta to snap like that.

Although – Elinor realized with another jolt in her stomach – perhaps Elinor had never really paid attention to her friend's feelings.

Of course Netta was right in the sense that Elinor simply did not care about finding a husband she had no say in marrying. And though Elinor was honestly not even a tiny bit pleased with her situation, she knew that it was necessary. After all, if Elinor had to wait until she was ready for marriage then the kingdom would be waiting at least a hundred years or so. Perhaps Netta had a right to be angry with Elinor.

And maybe Elinor really didn't deserve to be princess.

"Now that you look presentable, take your seat," said a voice, jerking Elinor out of her thoughts. She swallowed and sat at the long dining table beside her mother, who was sitting at one head looking quite edgy as her birdlike eyes darted around the table, as if trying to find fault in the silverware. Her mother did not bat an eye at Elinor's sulky countenance, obviously too focused on making sure that the evening would go according to plan. To Elinor, the table settings looked fine. The best flatware had been chosen (silver plates and golden goblets) and the intricate tablecloth was ironed to perfection. Both Fergus and his father would be sitting across from Elinor, which made her squirm inwardly. She would be face to face with Fergus for who-knows how many hours, and she wasn't sure she could keep up a lighthearted conversation for that long…especially since she felt as though she should be throwing herself off the top of the castle.

"Be polite to yer champion," the king nodded in Elinor's direction. "The Underhills are a very respectable clan."

"Shoulders back now," the queen insisted as the Underhills were summoned and entered through the large oak doors. "Big smile…that's right."

Elinor stretched the corners of her mouth as far as they would go and imagined that she resembled a very pained-looking buck-toothed squirrel. Had she mentioned that the last thing she wanted to do was socialize?

The two Underhills were now striding towards the elaborate table, already joking and laughing between themselves so easily that for a split moment, Elinor wished that she was among them and not sitting politely table between her parents. The men with the wild red hair bowed low before the royals when they had reached the table.

"Yer majesties," Underhill said graciously. He smiled so his bushy beard turned upwards. "An honor to sup with yeh."

The king nodded in return, albeit a little gruffly. "Our congratulations go to young Fergus for winning the first task."

Fergus bowed his head, though Elinor could see his cheeks reddening slightly.

The queen seemed pleased at his modesty and shot Elinor a look as if to say "take note of his humility," but Elinor had pretended not to notice. Fergus and his father took their places at the table and were poured mead immediately. Elinor took this distraction as an opportunity to glance around at the servants to see if Netta was among them.

"Drink up," the king encouraged to the men, holding his own goblet aloft. "Cheers."

The Underhills grinned broadly and let out grunts of gratitude as they took large swigs from their cups. They were immediately refilled by a passing servant. Elinor was still glancing around at the servants, trying to catch sight of a pair of blonde braids swishing about. All she wanted was to tell Netta how sorry she was for the fight – she didn't think she could bear the pain in her chest any longer. As she scanned the hall, her eyes happened to pass by Fergus' (which was not too surprising, considering they were sitting directly across from one another). Elinor gave a little jump and fashioned her face into another forced smile. "Ah…how did it feel to win the match, Fergus?" (Her mother was listening closely.)

Fergus' blue eyes sparkled animatedly as he, presumably, recounted the task. "Exhilarating! I had been practicing all morning for this task, yeh know."

"Well, it certainly showed," Elinor replied politely, still wishing her mother would join the men in conversation.

"Aw, you're too kind, Princess," Fergus said. "I thank ye."

This response somewhat surprised Elinor. Whenever she had given compliments away like this, the recipient would almost never accept, usually turning the conversation back to her. "Well, I couldn't have done it without the thought of you, Princess," or "I was barely even trying, Princess." Though Elinor knew she should have always been flattered with the false modesty, she almost never was. To her, it seemed as though everyone was weaseling around their accomplishments for the sake of making a royal feel good about themselves. But Fergus had worked hard for his goal, and he didn't seem to have any problems acknowledging his victory and graciously accepting any compliments he had earned.

"So, Princess," Fergus was saying now, leaning across the table as if to make their conversation more personal. Elinor knew her mother did not approve of the elbows on the table, but she didn't mind closing her mother off from the conversation. "I hear yeh play the mandolin."

Elinor nodded. Music was actually one of her favorite pastimes, and she was rather surprised that Fergus had brought this up. After all, no one had ever mentioned it. "Yes…I do enjoy it."

Fergus' face broke out into a smile. "Then I must hear yeh play."

Elinor was quite amazed that her mother had not interrupted for a full five minutes, but now she did. "You see, Fergus, Elinor is not yet ready to perform in front of an audience just yet. She still has much to learn before she is capable of that."

Fergus' eyebrows furrowed in a puzzled way. "I surely wouldn't mind, yer majesty. I'm sure she plays wonderfully."

Elinor glanced down at her hands, feeling her cheeks redden. He really was being too kind…but somewhere in her mind Elinor knew it was all a façade. She was the princess, he was a competitor…this was just how these things went.

"Perhaps not today, Fergus," the Queen said in finality. "Now tell us of all your accomplishments! I have been dying to hear of the story of your bear hunting!"

Seemingly hesitant, Fergus began to tell the Queen of how a bear entered his village and had taken the life of his grandfather. Fergus had then tracked the creature for three months in the misty mountains before slaying it and bringing back its head for the village. He spoke with gusto and many excited hand gestures (though he almost knocked over Elinor's goblet at one crucial point in the story). Elinor almost found herself grinning at Fergus' enthusiasm – his eyes were as wide as dinner plates as they recounted his adventures. Even the king had stopped his conversation with Underhill to listen to the story. Fergus truly was an excellent storyteller. Elinor could not tear her gaze away from his mouth that was moving at a mile a minute. The descriptions of his escapades made her chest swell with the delight practically dripping from Fergus' words. The way he described his adventures made Elinor want to go out and have one of her own: to grab a horse and ride off into the misty mountains, perhaps in search of a wisp or a forest nymph to guide her on her way.

The story ended abruptly when the food arrived and was set before the guests. Elinor could not help but feel slightly disappointed as she reluctantly picked up her fork and poked at the tomatoes in her salad. It was then when she happened to look up, finding Fergus' eyes on hers. For no reason that she could imagine, she felt her heart skip in her chest, but did not look away for at least two full seconds. He blinked and suddenly gave a very small chuckle. But what was so humorous?

Her eyes soon returned to her food.

Dinner dragged by with forced conversation and fake laughs, just like any other formal dinner Elinor had ever attended with her parents...

…except that Elinor rather enjoyed sitting across from Fergus that evening. He was interesting to watch – his expressions and reactions were entertaining, not to mention he would lean in and whisper a joke or two when Elinor's mother wasn't looking so she had to hide her laughter behind her napkin. He was quite easy to chat with, and made the dinner even more bearable.

"That was delicious!" Underhill sighed happily, stretching his arms over his head and leaning back in his chair, belching loudly. Fergus cast Elinor an amused glance and she promptly giggled at her father's reaction to this sudden outburst.

"Er…we are glad you enjoyed yerselves," he tried, clearing his throat. "Why don't we have a drink by the fire, eh?"

"Sounds promising!" Underhill replied, standing and stretching again. "Fergus, why don't yeh show the princess yer new stallion, eh? Bet she'd like that."

With a nod of consent from the king, Fergus offered his hand to Elinor and began to lead her out of the hall. As she held to his forearm, she realized just how drastically different their sizes were. She was tiny compared to his stature, and her little hand wrapped around his thick arm so it almost disappeared in the folds of his deep blue tunic. They made their way out the front doors to Elinor's enormous relief. The cool air felt heavenly against her warm skin, and the smell of forests and horses was a welcome change of pace from the scents of food and strong perfumes.

"Thank goodness," she heard herself saying. She quickly put a hand to her mouth – had she said something so rude out loud?

But to her surprise, Fergus let out a booming laugh that echoed around the courtyard. "I tell yeh, princess, if I had to sit another moment listening to my father prattle on about the proper way to hunt squirrels, I would have had to throw myself out the window."

Elinor laughed, but did not cover her mouth. She felt more at ease now that her mother was not glowering over her shoulder and whispering suggestions into her ear. It helped that Fergus was easy to speak with.

He led her across the courtyard and into the Underhill camp, where large tents were erected beside flags printed with the Underhill crest. There were still fires burning and people huddled around them, speaking in booming voices – no doubt telling more war stories. But before they could draw any attention, Fergus led Elinor to the outside of the camp and into the shadows where the horses were standing. He untied a rope and led one of the horses towards the princess. It was a massive animal and much larger than Fergus. It had a deep bay coat and coal-black hair that fell in front of huge black eyes. Elinor's mouth fell slightly at the size of it as it _clip-clopped_ closer to her.

"This here's Drosdan," Fergus stated proudly. "He's a bit of a ninny, but he's still young yet. Go ahead, he won't hurt yeh…"

Elinor held out a tentative hand and the horse sniffed it curiously; breath warm on Elinor's icy skin. She reached out further and stroked his velvet muzzle. "He's beautiful."

"Yeah…" Fergus replied, patting the creature on its thick neck. "Seems to like yeh, too." It did appear so, for the horse was nuzzling Elinor's face with its nose, causing her to burst into giggles. Fergus gave a little grunt. "Drosdan sometimes forgets that he's supposed to be a fearsome warrior horse, the great git."

Elinor laughed again, even more loudly this time. She glanced at Fergus and then to Drosdan, figuring that there was a strange resemblance between the two. She pulled a stray piece of straw from the horse's mane, and suddenly, without warning, a feeling of dread washed over her.

Netta.

Why did that entire ordeal have to happen? And why had it stuck with her, replaying in her mind over and over again? All of the self-doubt and blame came flooding back…

"_Do you see the way Underhill looks at you? Like you are the only person in the room? And you have treated him like he doesn't matter in the slightest."_

"Princess, are yeh all right…?"

Elinor separated herself from her thoughts long enough to see Fergus' brow furrowed worriedly. Had she really never noticed the way he was looking at her? "Yes…I…"

"…_maybe you don't deserve to be princess."_

"Really, Princess, yeh don't look well."

She waved her hand airily. "I'm fine, Fergus. I just need to sit down…"

He took her tiny hand in his enormous one and led her to a fallen tree where she gratefully sat, fanning her face to stop the tears from flowing. She needed to find Netta, apologize. But how could she after such a pleasant evening with an amiable man?

Fergus' eyes were darting over her features, worry etched across every inch of his face. "You're unwell. Can I get yeh anything? Water? Glass o' wine…?"

She shook her head, more forcefully. "No, no, I'm all right. Thank you."

"You're crying, Princess."

"What?" Elinor brought a finger to her face only to find that her right cheek was wet with tears. "Oh, dear…"

Fergus inhaled deeply, unmistakable anger burning in his eyes. "What happened, Princess? Who did this to yeh?"

Elinor quickly wiped her wet eyes. "No one…I only…" she sighed in defeat. She would tell him. After all, who else could she confide in? "Well, if you must know, I had a bit of a spat with a good friend of mine."

Fergus' face softened slightly as he leaned in to listen.

"And by the end of the whole thing," Elinor struggled to find the right words. "I doubted very much that I am…capable of so much responsibility." She knew it sounded stupid even as it was coming out of her mouth, but Fergus did not scoff or roll his eyes or tell her off for being insecure.

Instead, he let out a little "hm" and sat with her in thought for a minute, listening to the sounds of the other clan members drinking and laughing and singing into the night. He finally turned to face her, looking serious. "If yeh don't mind me saying, Princess, I was a bit nervous about showing up to this Highland Games thing."

Elinor gave him a bewildered look.

"Now I don't mean to blather on about myself, but I was downright scared, I was. I had heard that the princess of DunBroch was cold and emotionless." Elinor narrowed her eyes, but Fergus laughed as if she was making a joke. "Hear me out! I arrived, a shivering, nervy wreck, until I saw you." Fergus smiled at the memory. "Yeh were just as beautiful as I'd heard, and I was surprised to see that yeh were not mean-looking at all. Yeh looked more bored than anything."

Elinor mouth twitched. "Well, you would be bored, too, if you had to sit next to my mother all evening."

"I imagine so," he winked. "But I knew that I had to speak to yeh, at least wish yeh a 'Happy Birthday' and all. And let me tell yeh, Princess, you were one of the kindest, loveliest people I ever had the pleasure of meetin'."

Elinor cleared her throat. He was making her feel so at ease with his low, rumbling voice and soft eyes, but she could not allow herself to lose her focus. "What are you trying to say, Fergus…?"

"I'm _sayin',"_ he urged. "That you, Princess Elinor, have everything it takes to be princess. You can sit quietly in a hall full of bearded mongrels like me, for pity's sake!"

Elinor sighed. "I know you are trying to make me feel better, Fergus, but…"

"Agh, I know I'm inarticulate," he grumbled. "But don't yeh listen to people who say that you're not good enough. Just by _looking _at yeh, I can see that you are special, Princess. You're not like any of the silly tavern girls my clan keeps around. You're smart and clever, and yeh have all the skills to be a ruler." He trailed off a bit, staring at his hands. "You're…I believe in yeh, Princess. I really do."

Elinor stared, watching the faint glow of a nearby fire flicker on Fergus' weather-beaten face. He had said it so simply, and perhaps it was just another attempt at flattery. But he had delivered it all so sincerely without any sugar-coating. An enormous weight lifted off of Elinor's chest as she studied him in the firelight. He made her feel like everything was going to be all right.

"I thank you, Fergus," she said at last. "And please, call me Elinor."


End file.
